


render unto you

by ennaih (aquandrian)



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, First Time, Prompt Fill, Size Kink, Yes Really, because they deserved it damnit, but no violence, deeply purple prose, for which i make no apology, hints of Domme!Jyn, massage porn, stay with me on this one, which was unexpected
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-06
Updated: 2016-07-06
Packaged: 2018-07-21 22:25:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7407502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aquandrian/pseuds/ennaih
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>This is a decision, half instinct half madness, and it could be the worst thing she’s ever done but it’s her fatal mistake to make. Her overture to make.</i>
</p><p>A prompt fill that got wildly out of hand. As it was meant to cos certain people are sneaky and know me a little too well already.</p>
            </blockquote>





	render unto you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [onstraysod](https://archiveofourown.org/users/onstraysod/gifts).



> Title from _Loverman_ by Nick Cave and The Bad Seeds.

The Director’s residential quarters on Coruscant are, unsurprisingly, mostly white. And weirdly, that doesn’t make the rooms look sterile or forbidding. Rather, there are all these textures that make for a sort of touchable comforting apartment of rooms looking out on the soaring skyline. Jyn Erso never knew there were so many shades of white. She tries not to stare, focusing instead on her gear, conscious of the hospitality droid monitoring her from the corner. 

There are probably security cameras hidden everywhere she can’t see, tracking her every movement. The Director of the Imperial Army is famously paranoid. It took an awful lot of credits crossing palms and forged documents to get her through the security checks, and even then the firm that sent her had to provide a reference and some sort of guarantee.

She has to succeed. The determination burns in her chest but no, she has to appear harmless now. Play the part well now that she’s finally got the chance. The Rebellion knows the plans are always kept with the Director, that his paranoia is justified to that extent. A thumb drive on his person, some form of electronic data, nothing that he would keep in an information bank in this apartment. So she has to get this close, look disinterested enough or scared enough to get close enough and then get away before he brings all the viciousness of the Empire down on her.

She may not survive this but that’s a chance she’s willing to take, to atone for sins that are not hers. It isn’t noble, it’s … necessary. She’s no goddamned Joan of Arc -- that kind of dangerous thinking is for the fools in the Rebellion, and she, she’s not that delusional. So she unpacks the gear, thinks herself into this scenario.

The Director of the Imperial Army rarely visits Coruscant. He prefers to remain shipside, moving from one planet to the next, one system to the next, conducting negotiations and briefings via official holonet channels, managing the troops and machines of war at the frontline of an increasingly overt war, and managing to make uneasy the rest of the Imperial bureaucracy. There are whispers of a secret agenda but since those rumours abound mostly in the Rebellion, Jyn’s inclined to treat them more as fancy rather than any possible truth.

But occasionally, very occasionally, the Director allows himself to be summoned by the Empire to report on his activities. And this time he allows himself a luxury. It’s information that falls into Rebellion hands, inciting a mad scramble of those bribes and forgeries. And so Jyn Erso, newly recruited to the cause, finds herself struggling with a massage table that refuses to fold out. It’s absurd and faintly demeaning and it may not even work but she has to bloody try. He may never see this coming.

If his paranoia really is that deep, he probably will.

The hospitality droid whirrs forward to help, and eventually the cushioned table is set solid on its legs. Jyn sets out the oils and towels, trying to remember all the hasty tutelage from the past few hours. If the temperature was less perfectly regulated in this apartment, she’d be sweating. But no, it’s fine, she can do this. Pretend it’s something you’ve done hundreds of times before, pretend this is just another job, that you’re bored and need the credits, that really you’re thinking about what to have for dinner tonight.

When everything’s in its place, she nods thanks at the droid whirring back into the corner, and goes to change. The refresher looks barely personal, a few aftershave bottles and toiletries set out on the gleaming counter. She pulls off her clothes, avoiding her own gaze in the reflection, and surveys the masseuse outfit with some misgiving. It’s white, she hates white clothes. And the material is strangely silken. She doesn’t want that charge of eroticism against her skin, doesn’t want anything like that to happen on this mission. 

Her tutors had been clear on that aspect. The policy was that it wasn’t required, it wasn’t expected, but if an overture was made and she chose to accept it, to indulge in that activity, then she’d be accordingly paid. And now, damnit, now that the thought’s been planted, Jyn finds she can’t shake it. She’s only seen distant footage of this man, a white caped figure with silvered hair. A sort of ghost story. The man she’s going to meet in a matter of minutes could be nothing like that. He could be human and repulsively so, she might want to slit his throat rather than touch him with her bare hands. 

And yet what if?

No, it’s absurd. She pushes away the thought and steps into the loose drawstring trousers, ties the wrapover top at her waist. Good, it’s not actually as transparent as she’d feared. With her hair pulled back, she actually looks professional, like this is something she’s done a hundred times. Just another day on the job.

When she comes out of the ‘fresher, the droid beckons her into a side room. There are voices out in the living area. He’s returned and for the moment, he’s not alone. Jyn waits behind the door, alert to any passing comment, any information to be gleaned. The droid hurries off to attend to its master and in a while, the voices stop. The apartment returns to that hushed white peace, scented faintly with something expensive and vintage, like fragrant wood from some distant beautiful planet. 

The droid comes to fetch her, and she follows it back to the living area that’s shaded now with cream blinds drawn down. Jyn Erso sees the Director of the Imperial Army for the first time. He is a pale slender man lying facedown with his cheek turned against his folded arms, a white folded towel laid across the small of his back. The shape of him is not what she expected, not a ruthless rigid line from head to toe. The shape of him is somehow fluid and elegant, strangely beautiful from the turn of his head to the male curve of his spine to the contour of his calf and the turn of the underside of his foot bare to the soft creamy light. She breathes in, disquieted, and realises something else. Divested from the armour of a white uniform, he’s freckled all over, a weirdly boyish pattern of vulnerability like a coded language in smooth skin. 

She wants -- a silent revelation -- very much to touch him.

It’s a sensation that moves through her, not with panic but soft thunderous possibility. Her mind grapples with this as she approaches the table, her body slow, and takes up the vial of oil. Grappling with the shock of self-aware desire, the odd absence of horror at herself because she could, she could turn this to her advantage. To the advantage of the Rebellion. 

He says nothing but as she draws nearer, she seems to enter the field of his perception. He has his eyes closed, his lashes lighter than the grey brown of his hair, the tips strangely blond, but she knows he knows exactly where she is and will at all times. As she rubs the oil over her hands, releasing the scent of bergamot, Jyn’s eyes flick to the neatly folded stack of clothes on a nearby chair, shades of white on white again. A pair of black glossy boots stand to the side, and from a hook on the wall hang the sleek folds of the white duster that mark the particular idiosyncrasy of the Director of the Imperial Army. The plans are here now. The question is how does she find out where exactly, and how does she get to them without him being any the wiser?

Fuck him.

Her hands jolt at that thought. No. Breathe in. Work this moment to moment. And right now she takes that one step forward and puts both her hands on his shoulderblades. There is no shock, no thunderclap of revelation. He breathes in steadily, and she starts to move her hands like she was taught. His skin is so smooth, warming to her palms. She shapes her fingers to the muscles of his back, distantly aware that she likes the way his flesh resists her. She finds the tension, digs her fingers in on instinct, and a ripple of something goes through him. He likes that. That is what she’s here for. And oh, she can hurt him so well like this. 

The scented oil gleams his skin as she grips and manipulates the muscles in his back, her touch getting bolder and harder. He doesn’t protest. If anything, his body seems to give itself over to her touch. And she takes a sort of ownership, dizzied by this intimacy. Her hips press against the side of the table, she leans over him, watches her breath stir the soft dark hair at his nape. Their only points of contact are her hands, and all her consciousness seems to focus there. 

She moves along his arms in long sweeps down to the firm bone of his wrists, seizing and working his flesh. His fingers are not long. Rather, they remind her just what this man is, a brutal efficient killer, butcher of civilisations and species. So she doesn’t touch his hands. She steps back, breathing a little too fast, and takes up the vial of oil again. Is this too much, is she losing control of the situation? She glances again at the stack of clothes, glances back with slight alarm when he moves. But he only turns his face to the other side, eyes still closed.

He glistens all the places she’s been, almost glowing warm and touchable where the Coruscanti sunshine filters through the fabric blinds and shimmers his mottled skin. She has her hands on him before she realises, her fingers curling around the fine shape of his ankles. At the foot of the table, Jyn hunches her shoulders and slides her hands up the strong defined shape of his calves, feels that arching movement sinuous in her spine, and oh god now she feels the rub of the silken top against her breasts, against the sharp little points of her nipples. She bites back a moan, overstimulated by the sensation and by her treacherous gaze skipping up the inner lengths of his thighs up to where the towel shades his private parts. She shouldn’t be thinking these things, she’s supposed to be going good now.

No one will ever know about this.

It’s another terrible thought in a series of many. As she digs into the firm muscles of his thighs, her fingertips slip into the shadow between, sensing warmth. And he, with a breath and a smooth undulation of his shoulder, grabs the corner of the towel and pulls it off. It drops to the floor in a soft plush sound. She watches her hands slide up the back of his thighs, slick with oil. She doesn’t even know anymore if it’s impersonal or a caress. All she knows is she has to keep touching him, learning the code of his skin, this stranger, this man she should be wary of. And she is, she hasn’t lost that awareness of the danger of him.

But it’s different now. A certain heat moves up the skin of her throat, maybe she’s blushing but it’s not embarrassment anymore. Her thumbs find the contours of his hipbones, a little cruel pressure that makes him draw in a narrow breath and press down into the padded table. It’s a sudden shocking tell, that yes he’s as affected by this as she is. Now she wants to reach between his thighs and find the male heat of him, see how he responds to that touch. That overture. But she loses her nerve -- so much for the rebel -- and instead focuses on the curve of his arse -- such a harsh word but the only one she can bring herself to think about him -- and how it fits against the curve of her palm. Her nails scrape against his skin and he likes that too, she can tell from that subtle ripple under her touch. It makes her confident again, regaining composure, her hands bold once more because he wants this and maybe that means she can get what she wants.

Whatever that is. Does she even know anymore?

Does she care?

Without thinking, Jyn puts one knee on the edge of the table and hitches herself up. One knee on either side of his thighs and she’s not making any contact with him, suddenly giddy with this new vantage point, this position of power. It makes her feel like he is hers, her plaything and possession. Which is absurd but it’s a feeling she can’t shake, a feeling warm in the sensitised skin of her palms and coiling hot in the centre of her chest. She leans forward over him, places a hand at his nape and strokes long and slow down the swoop of his spine. His reaction is instinctive and gratifying, a caught sound in his throat and he lifts his head for the slightest fraction before he reasserts his own control. 

So she goes one further and lowers herself to sit on the back of his thighs. The silk of her trousers slips between them, slips and sticks with oil. She likes the way it binds them but then she’s focusing on placing her elbows on his back. Lean in and lean down like she was taught, putting all her weight in so that her chest is against her forearms and so he grunts a little into the padding. She likes this sensation of holding him down, likes it so very much and not entirely understanding why. In hard precise movements, she walks her elbows down his back, on either side of his spine, realising how this brings her mouth so close to his dizzyingly beautiful freckled skin. The scent of warm oil and bergamot rises off him and into her head, into her throat, intoxicating and slipping all the way down inside her to pool deep in her belly. No, lower, lower.

And then she realises that’s her smell too, the rich intense scent of aroused female soaking through thin silk. Her face burning, Jyn pulls back upright and only then looks down to see herself. The oil has turned patches of her top transparent in what should be a shocking wanton sight. But … but she’s not shocked. She’s not reacting in any of the ways she should. The silk does nothing to conceal the pink eagerness of her nipples and she finds she doesn’t want it to. She wants … 

Jyn touches her breasts with light wondering fingertips. It’s like she’s discovering her body all over again. And maybe that is true. She hasn’t been a virgin for years but she hasn’t been touched in all that time either, too wary, too distrustful of every possible betrayal that could return her to her father. Now she slides her palm across the flat curve of her belly, contemplating the tie of the wrapover top. She can’t even articulate it to herself, maybe that’s the point. Don’t think, just do. Take this for yourself, don’t question, don’t overanalyse, don’t strategise. Let whatever happens happen, and let the fucking galaxy take care of itself. Any other option just seems so exhausting and she’s tired, so tired of running and dodging and scheming and spying.

She takes a slow breath in, feeling the creamy golden world around her expand in currents of warm air, and she lifts up onto her knees, free from his body. She doesn’t have to think about anything. Reaching for the vial, she pours more oil into the palm of one hand, and with the other, touches his shoulder. He moves fluidly, like he feels the slow syrupy sunshine too. 

He turns onto his back and looks at her for the first time, a slight serious girl outlined against the ivory shades.

It’s almost too much. He has sharp blue grey eyes so direct and intense she feels almost pierced, and then just as quickly he closes them, his mouth tightening into a sort of line she can’t read. Maybe he saw how it shook her, maybe he didn’t care, too much focused on his own need. And oh, ohhhh, then she lets herself look at the rest of him revealed. How his hair curves against the swoop of his brow, how his mouth is cruel and sullen at the same time, and how he inhabits his male body, wears it like a weapon at ease. She touches him before she can finish looking, leaning forward to overturn her palm over the centre of his chest. He breathes in sharp but says nothing, doesn’t even lift his lids to watch. That’s all right, she finds she prefers it this way, being able to touch him and watch him without being watched. She uses both her hands now to smear the oil across his chest. His body is remarkably hairless, she realises and wonders if that’s another fastidious idiosyncrasy of the Director of the Imperial Army. 

But no, when she allows herself to glance down, there is a patch of dark brown hair between his thighs, glimmering with silver. Jyn looks at his cock and feels herself blush all over, as hot and vivid with blood. He’s so very erect and unashamed about it, a rude beautiful curve against dark silver hair and the flesh of his pale abdomen. When she glances automatically at his face, wondering if she’s been caught staring, there’s a glimmer of blue through lashes and she blushes even harder as she struggles for defiance. She focuses back on his chest, remembers her visible nipples when she sees his, her fingers flexing on his skin as she wonders if he’s looking through his lashes at her breasts. Her legs uncurling below her, she leans forward and smooths her hands over his ribcage, marking him as hers with fragrant oil and the drag of her fingerprints. She settles on his thighs, dimly aware of the ache of her sex but so, so focused on this new learning of his body. His nipples are not the same pink as hers, much paler and somehow sweeter, tiny. She stares at them, her hands stroking over the breathing plane of his abdomen, wanting to taste them on her tongue, wondering what he tastes like under the bergamot oil.

But she doesn’t. His lashes close fast, his hands curled loosely by his side, as she rises and works the muscles and sinews of his upper body. His heart beats hard and fast under the sweep of her hand, his breathing eerily steady. She finds herself slightly annoyed now by this Imperial composure, and so wraps her hand around his cock. 

It’s more of a shock to her than him. He takes in a knife sharp breath through his nose, his hips lift involuntarily, a beautiful arch of male torso and male need. But she’s the one who goes warm all over, appalled and delighted by how hot and hard and impossibly smooth he is in her hand, horrified by her violation of him. She clasps his cock firm, tightens her grip and watches as he sighs, and a drop of clear fluid forms at the bare tip. She could taste, she knows that, take that new knowledge into her, but it’s not something she wants yet. Rather make him suffer a little more.

So she braces one hand on the table by his hip, and twists her hand up and down the length of his cock, spreading the lubrication of oil and pre-come down and up. He almost reaches out his arm for her, almost and then stops himself with an effort, tipping his chin up. Jyn’s half-smiling, thoroughly enjoying herself as she works his cock brutally and with a certain smugness. She doesn’t know where this feeling has come from but it courses through her, thrilling and delicious. This is power, a kind that he yields to her, it’s true, but power nevertheless. His breathing quickens, tiny shudders going under his skin, and she sees where he grips the edge of the table with tense fingers. He won’t give in. Abruptly she realises she could make him come like this, undo him like this, the impenetrable untouchable Director of the Imperial Army all covered with oil and her fingerprints, covered with his come.

That’s not what she wants.

Jyn lets go and slips off the table, her heart fast and hard in her chest. Just like that, her nerve shakes again. Like once she stops touching him, all her doubt and uncertainty comes back. That’s ridiculous but that’s how she feels. And now she stands beside the table, aware that he’s watching her through his lashes again, his breathing unsteady. She raises her gaze to his face, her lips parted a little, and she raises her hand to her waist. This is a decision, half instinct half madness, and it could be the worst thing she’s ever done but it’s her fatal mistake to make. Her overture. 

He lies still, watches her pull open the knot of the drawstring trousers, watches as they fall in a silken heap around her ankles and she steps out of them. The top still covers her to the start of her thighs, clinging uncomfortably to the aching tips of her small breasts as she clambers back onto the table. When she parts her legs over his, she feels the lips of her sex part, slick and hot against the air of the room, and his lashes lift on brilliant grey blue eyes. He doesn’t touch her and she doesn’t touch him but he looks at her and his gaze is like a devouring thing, somehow wild, only a little controlled.

She realises this is where he lives. Not in the white apartment or the freckled body or the dramatic white clothes. But behind those eyes beautiful and so very intelligent, hiding and revealing everything she can’t read, that’s where he is. And she’s gone too far to care about why she wants him. She just does.

Right here, right now.

Jyn takes hold of his cock and, aware of the spectacle she makes, gasps as she impales herself on him. “Fuuuck,” he snarls involuntarily and silently she agrees. It’s a slow relentless engulfing of her flesh of his, slick with so much scented oil and her own wetness and his desire. Now he groans and clutches at her thighs, hard hands on smooth skin, his eyes desperate on her. She may have moaned in reply, she can’t tell, overwhelmed by the glorious sensation of his cock invading her. He’s so much bigger than she expected, maybe she’s just that much smaller than she thought, but his cock strains at the walls of her sex, making her so aware of all her insides. Then she’s coming in soft wet rushes, preliminary little orgasms that make it so much easier for him to slide higher and deeper inside as she eases steadily down on him. They’re both moaning now, now as she seats herself on him, the dark fine hair of her sex against the silvered dark of his.

“Oh fuck,” he says, rough and helpless. “Fuck me.” He’s reddening all the way down his gleaming throat, his hair sticking to his temples, his eyes glittering. He’s so fucking beautiful she almost can’t bear it, so thoroughly overstimulated and still greedy for more, greedy to come so hard and so long on his cock. That’s when she reaches for the tie, pulls it undone and unwraps her breasts for him to see properly, for her to watch him react because she’s shameless and exhibitionist now. His eyes flare, pupils blown huge with lust, but when he reaches for her, his back coming up off the table, she pushes him down again. He’s startled a little by that, a flash of moving intelligence, but then she’s braced herself with both hands on his chest and is grinding down on him. 

Slow at first, slow so they both feel it deep and raw and wet, slow because she’s going to make the most of every minute of this, feeling it in the roll and sway of her hips powerful and female. And then that’s not enough, then he’s jolting up into her, gripping her thighs and urging her closer on him, close enough that he can cup the shape of her bottom and make her fuck him faster, harder. The head of his cock is hitting that bundle of nerves inside her, slick and sparking fire through her. She’s gasping, breathless, her hair stinging against her hot face and neck, and he has his fingers on her nipples, pulling just enough to hurt in the best way. She drags his hand away from her breasts, down to where her clit is throbbing. Butcher fingers, she remembers wildly, brutal killer hands that are now coaxing her towards so much pleasure, and then tipping her there. She comes and comes and comes, barely aware of the cries from her throat, of her spine arching and fingers curling. She only knows so much heat and colour and light melting all the way through her, knows the fierce pleasure of her sex clenching around his cock, and then, then retaining enough breathless awareness to watch for the moment he gives up all his Imperial control to her. He comes into her, hot and violent, his parted mouth like a crooked wound, the beautiful lashes flitting against the freckled reddened skin of his face. His seed is shot up inside the close secret of her sex, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of her bottom, and somehow the thought of that stuff, dangerous and destructive, inside her makes her come once more, a spasm of vicious beauty that shudders her body and topples her onto his chest.

For a long while, there is only the sound of their rough breathing, the hurt of her pounding heart in her chest. Slowly, almost delicately, Jyn becomes aware of the warm white room around them. Hears the whirr of the droid in the corner, a realisation that silently horrifies her for a few seconds before letting it go with a mental shrug. The security cameras would have captured everything but it’s not like the Director of the Imperial Army would let such footage be accessed by anyone but him, if not destroy it immediately. Her mind is clear now, like she’s moved through all the confusion and utter insanity to emerge cool and possibly ruthless again on the other side.

She pushes up. Except her hands braced on his chest means she’s once more in contact with his skin, and now he looks up at her with sleepy lovely eyes, his mouth strangely soft. Her clarity clouds a little, and maybe, maybe that’s not a bad thing. She stares at him, utterly at a loss about what happens next. 

The Director of the Imperial Army -- she’s forgotten his name, it’ll come to her in a moment -- regards her with a certain wryness and says: “What’s your name?”

She nearly laughs, sees the responding tug of amusement to his mouth. But then the same realisation touches them both. It’s not a laughing matter at all, she could so easily kill him now. He could so easily eliminate her, either personally or officially. His face hardens, a sort of glacial silveriness to his eyes, and the lines around his mouth setting. And she, maverick to the last, tells the truth.

“Jyn Erso.”

He recognises it. That much is clear from the way his eyes fix on her face, his expression very still and guarded. She watches him thinking, sees her father slip through his mind, her father and his stupid dangerous science. She watches this happen, still sitting astride his thighs. His cock is curling and slipping from her, the scent of oil and sex smeared all between them, rich and so very real, as inescapable as this situation they’ve fucked themselves into. He’s thinking and searching her face, a tactician moving through all the contingencies, all the ways he could be used or use this to his advantage. 

“Have you found them?” he asks coolly. The backs of his fingers are against the inside of her thighs. 

“No.”

His eyes hood, now she sees the slyness of him and it’s a sharp thrill. He looks at her mouth in a way that reminds her they haven’t kissed, his sullen lower lip glistens a bit, and maybe that’s never meant to be. None of this insanity. And then just like that, his lashes lift and the corner of his mouth curves up. He’s made a decision, she just doesn’t know what it is yet. And just like that, she remembers.

“Have you eaten?” he asks. “Mr Tchek can arrange a meal for us.” A glance over at the droid and then he gives her the start of a slow irrepressibly lovely smile. His fingers shape to the contour of her thighs, his eyes bright. “I can show you the plans, then.” 

His name is Orson Krennic. She has learnt the language of his skin, claimed every inch and freckle and pore of him, and now she has made him hers.

Now it’s the two of them against the Empire and the Rebellion.

**Author's Note:**

> So onstraysod sent me this prompt: _Krennic is visiting Coruscant on official Imperial business. Jyn is desperate to get access to his quarters. Krennic feels he deserves a little treat after all his hard work, so he orders a masseuse. Guess who that turns out to be? She digs a little hard and she likes to use her elbows. But damn, it feels good. ;)_
> 
> And I, being a pervert, went "I LOVE massage porn!"
> 
> And a little while later said "Okay, massage porn is **_hard_**."
> 
> But porn will triumph. Always.


End file.
